


Display

by ImmoralHD



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Blood As Lube, Bloodplay, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Crying, Cults, Desperation, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Messy and wet, Painplay, Purpleblood cultist is in love with her cult leader, Scratching, Tears, filthy language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmoralHD/pseuds/ImmoralHD
Summary: Their love is folie a deux.Complete madness is where he's driven her, a madness of love. When he says she may finally come live with him, her entire world is flooded with raw euphoria.Her panties now soaked, she's got to relieve herself in a way that would appease him. She only wishes he was there, so that she may finally be on display for him.
Relationships: OMF/OFC, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	Display

**Author's Note:**

> My OC purplebloods Veline and Silote are delusional. Silote is a cult leader, with heavy sway over Veline. She loves him with her whole bloodpusher, he loves her devotion.
> 
> Nightmare Fuel is a sort of liquid torture, I imagine it as a sort of acid.
> 
> Any other questions, I'd love to answer! Hopefully you enjoy <3

It’s with great relief that Veline returns to her hive. 

Soon enough, she’ll be moving out of this place-- selling it off to someone far less enlightened. It makes her shiver with excitement. Silote wants her to move into the caves, full time. No more trekking back at the end of the day to a home filled with material things she couldn’t care less about. Just Silote, and The Boundless, and ages without the light. Forever night, they lurk in shadows and darkness and it’s so perfect and full of this mind-melting happiness Veline feels like her skin is dripping and melting off. She’s made of fire so cold she’s freezing as she melts and drips off of her metaphorical bones. 

Exposed flesh, the richness of perfect purple blood. The true ruling class. Evil, evil seadwellers-- a mockery of both purpleblood and the gods of old. She remembers when Silote first explained it-- and he was brilliant, as always. The thought of it makes her force a hand over her nook, which she already feels is leaking thinned purple. She’s slick already. She can tell from the way she’s soaking her panties as she grinds into her fingers, through her layers of clothes. She doesn’t make it to the livingblock before she’s stealing a hand under her skirt.

She doesn’t like cumming without Silote, but she can’t contain herself. She hears his voice instead of many of her own, urging her to give in. Urging her to take what she wants. 

She does, and she ends up halfway down a hallway, watching the sun threaten to rise, as her fingers press inside that chilly, soaking nook of hers. She misses the feeling of his bulge inside her, she wishes he could gag her and make her try to scream right now. She could spend more time crying out her impurities. Tears are sins leaving the body.

Tears are sins leaving the body, and she wishes she was weeping.

She’s already curling and thrusting her fingers, moans and whimpers pouring from her mouth freely. It’s not the same, it’s not the same, it’s not the same, _it’s not the same, ** it’s not the same. **_

So she’s taking the gathered material of her skirt and stuffing it into her mouth. It’s out of her way and serves for a beautiful, purple gag. Silote would be proud of her for bathing herself in more purple. With her tummy and thighs exposed, leaning up against the wall, that free hand of hers claws her abdomen into dripping, leaking, purple, perfect ribbons. She drags her nails, bordering on talons, down herself until she feels that dizzying, euphoric pain. 

There is no Nightmare Fuel here, but she’ll torture herself just the same. She screams behind the gag as she presses her fingers into her cuts, coating her fingers in the richness of her blood. She smears it across her stomach as her hips jerk in reaction to the fingers that pound into her mercilessly. She’s shockingly close, she’s been dreaming of this since he confirmed her new residency. 

She’s not crying yet, though. Tears prick at her eyes and threaten to spill over, but it’s not enough.

Her thumb begins to carelessly grind against her pleasure nub, making each thrust of her fingers into her slit that much more of a tease. She honestly should pace herself, edge a little bit. It’s so selfish of her to rush through things, when she knows Silote would make her beg before drifting this close to climax. But Silote isn’t here, and this is hers. Another round of tearing herself to shreds reminds her to focus on the present moment, and the top of her thighs are now covered in marks. She is painting herself in the color of gods, the pigment of the most deserving. 

All she can feel is wet, _wet, **wet,**_ with the squelching and slickness of her nook and the blood now caking itself under her nails. It’s messy, and wrong, and she can smell the iron of her blood almost stronger than her own arousal. Her mouth waters that much more at the gore she’s painting herself in. With pride, she remembers the first time Silote whipped her until she was bloody. He helped her find her paint, helped her find her pride. Her tears and her blood have always been badges of honor, and each and every time she draws her fingers down her face, all coated in white, it reminds her of the whited-out afterlife she felt she was in by the time he was done abusing her. 

She’s moving with an urgency now, a desperation. She imagines Silote as a mess of tentacles and omnipotence, writhing around her with the same messy neediness that she’s touching herself with. Fingers pumping their way in and out as she recklessly smears blood across her body, with a muffled wail when her fingers run dry and she’s forced to dip into her inkwell veins again. It’s not until her knees shake that she’s pushing herself that much further, allowing herself the privilege of orgasm. Her claws dig into raw skin as she feels herself spasm around her fingers. 

Her eyes roll up to the heavens and she swears to every old god in existence that when she does cum, she sees cosmos on the inside of her skull. Stars in brilliant shades, painting the sky behind her eyes. She’s drooling around the self-made gag, eyes rolled back far enough to make her look ghastly. 

The puddle of purple on the floor has multiplied in size-- she can’t tell her genetic material apart. It’s just purple, more purple, and with a pitiful sob, she’s riding out the last aftershocks of climax. Her knees buckle and she stumbles into the puddle she’s made of herself. Her mouth finally opens, hem of her dress soaked in saliva. The fabric is darker, darker still when it falls into the puddle and saturates itself. 

She cries like a broken woman. She cries like herself. Her chest is heaving as she steadies herself, kneeling on her hands and knees. Shattered, delirious laughs break between the wails. It is rapture. Her hands coated in freezing blood and genetics, starting to dry in the air as she stays completely still. 

The sun rises in the window behind her and paints the room a mutant, awful shade of red. Veline has been weeping, crying, expunging herself of sin for what feels like minutes and took hours, but it’s natural now. Time is meaningless. Time is nothing to a god. Where she’s headed, they have no need for hours or days or sweeps, just raw pleasure and power and a need to obey. 

As she weeps, she is happy. Her breath calms and her tears dry, leaving her in a dazed aftermath. She is free of sin now.

Silote will be so proud of her.


End file.
